The heat in the day-room can put you to sleep
there’s a man reciting the days of the week like a prayer

he keeps his coat on, but he’s going nowhere
the place is a circus of contradictions

nurses anonymous as nuns push trays of benedictions
in all colours and shapes; on the tongue

they taste vaguely of a memory of Christ hung
for our sins on a mates rates tree

you count the minutes until the redemptive delivery
kicks in; the bed’s unmade, it reeks of you

the unrisen penis and the unrepentant view
of a wall dulled in industrial blue paint

you’d want the submissiveness of a consumptive saint
to take it in your stride, not to feel

the nails go in, the flogged skin crack and peel
washing your face in vinegar

from the tap, scrying unholy metaphor
in the mirror, shaving by the flame in your eye.